Crewman No 7
by nebbyJen
Summary: Not everyone has fun doing their assigned chores on Atlantis. And someone requires a bit of revenge!


A/N This was inspired by the SGAHC list on just who does all the maintenance around Atlantis. Star Trek/ Star Wars/ Atlantis-not mine! Okay? Okay. (Warning: This story contains mindless humor that started as a single chapter and snowballed uncontrollably from there!)

**Crewman No. 7** by nebbyJ

(Part 1) The Red Shirt

Friendship: Ford and Sheppard

"Sir, did you ever imagine that you'd be doing this? I mean, you're the highest ranking military officer on Atlantis."

"No, but it could be worse?"

"How do you figure that, sir?"

"Think about it Lieutenant, we _could be_ cleaning the desalination tanks with McKay and Kavanagh." Sheppard paused a moment and grinned, he thought for sure he heard earlier the sound of Rodney brewing up a storm through the ventilation system. "Or how about, Beckett? Do you really think pushing a dust mop can begin to compare with waste removal? From the mess hall?" He shuddered in mock trepidation.

The grin was contagious and Ford stopped to lean against the long wooden handle he'd been pushing, "Did you hear who got barber duty?" Not waiting for an answer, he laughed and slapped his side. "Dr. Zelenka! I saw Dr. Weir corner him in the control room this morning and tell him."

"No way? I think I'll wait until next weekend for a trim."

"Oh..."

Sheppard stopped shoving his mop and turned around to glare at the young man, "Spit it out, lieutenant."

"Well, uh; scuttlebutt has it sir, that you did your own barbering."

Dropping the handle to the floor, he threw his hands in the air. "Just because I don't blend in with all the jarheads and the flattops, doesn't mean I don't go see someone."

"Who do you see, sir?"

Flipping up the handle with his foot, he caught it single-handed. "None of your business."

"Dr. McKay?"

"No! Geez, Ford."

"Teyla?"

"I'm not telling you. Now get back to work, we have another floor to go when we're done with this one."

Ford knew when to be quiet. Watching the major quickly check his hair, he turned before the other man caught him laughing.

"Sir, did you ever watch Star Trek?"

"Sure, I caught a few episodes. I was more of the Star Wars type, though. Why?"

"You never saw anyone cleaning the ship. Or space station."

"True. They probably vaporized it or something." Sheppard stopped, tightening the loose handle of his mop for the umpteenth time. A brief look of inspiration crossed his face and he unscrewed his handle completely. Brandishing it in the air like a light saber, he made the harsh breath sounds of the Empire's worst villain.

"Oh, you are so on, sir." Ford unscrewed his pole and raised it up to meet the major's.

The clatter of the banging poles filled the corridor as the two men chased one another from one end to the other in the defense of some unknown galaxy, far, far, away.

When Sheppard knocked Ford off his feet, coincidentally using a move Teyla had taught him, the young officer remained on the floor breathing hard.

"I'm still not turning to the dark side, sir," he choked out, ducking sideways to miss the major's playful swing at his head.

Sheppard dropped to the floor, taking a break and to wait for his heart rate to return to normal. "You know, _it could be_ worse."

"What now?"

"Those old space shows, think about it. What ever happened to crewman no.7? You know, the guy that shows up on some mission and never returns. The minute you saw some unknown in a red shirt, you knew the guy was toast."

"I think you lost me, sir."

"Our team has four; McKay, Teyla, you, and I. As long as we stay together, we'll make it to the end. The good guys always win."

"But the red shirt?"

"Yep, crewman No. 7."

Ford nodded, pondering the wisdom of his fearless leader. "I think we're safe sir, cause none of us wear red."

"See, what'd I tell you." Standing up, he extended his hand to pull Ford to his feet. "Come on; let's get these floors finished so we can take the jumper out for a test drive."

Turning to make their way to the opposite end of the hallway, they recognized Dr. Weir waiting for them with her arms crossed, eyebrows raised. "Let me guess, Solo and Sisco this week? Or are you two, Kirk and Worf?"

They reattached the mop heads, neither giving her the satisfaction of comment. This wasn't the first time she'd caught them.

Watching her disappear around the corner, Ford stopped Sheppard, "Did you notice what she was wearing, sir?"

"Yeah, red shirt."

"What are we gonna do?"

"As long as we keep Beckett, she's safe. Together they make six, still an even number."

The door in front of them swooshed open and one very wet and angry scientist stomped by, leaving a trail of damp footprints down the hall.

"Hey, McKay, what happened?" Sheppard called out to his po'ed friend.

Rodney turned briefly; opening his mouth, but then shook his head before he stepped into his room. Seconds later, Kavanagh, also angry and soaking wet, made his way down the hallway.

Sheppard and Ford stepped back when the man made no move to go around them. "I wonder what happened," they said simultaneously to each other.

When the second scientist was no longer in sight, Ford poked Sheppard with the mop handle. "You know, sir, Kavanagh might just be…"

"Crewman No. 7," Sheppard completed, nodding his head in agreement. "Come on; let's get finished so we can find out what he did to McKay this time."

(Part 2) Something Rotten

Non-friendly: McKay and Kavanagh

Weir's stiff back disappeared behind the closed doors, leaving an open-mouthed, shell shocked McKay standing in her wake. Glancing down at the half eaten bagel gripped tightly in his hands, he finally remembered to swallow the partially chewed chunk turning to mush from saliva in his mouth before it fell to the floor. Unfortunately, a quick smack to the back of his head dislodged the piece and he spewed it across the mess hall table in surprise.

"What the bloody hell did you do, Rodney? Piss in her corn flakes this morning?" Carson thrust his balled up napkin towards his tray, missing by a mile, before shoving his chair under the table and stalking towards the rear of the mess hall. Scottish curses flew vehemently through the air amongst threats of living hell for certain run of the mouth, over zealous scientist, only to be silenced behind the closing of another door.

Mouth still agape, Rodney dropped his remaining breakfast onto his tray, glancing about the dead quiet room to see everyone who remained staring at him. "What? Don't you have jobs to get to?" With a huff, he piled his tray on top of Beckett's, shoved it on a cart along with all of the other dirty dishes, only to jerk back when a half full carafe of coffee splattered his hands and chest.

"Wonderful," he hissed, swiping at the mess. The large brown stain grew to cover most of his shirt, burning sensitive skin beneath. No longer caring who was watching, he stalked out, pulling his shirt over his head, before walking bare-chested through the hallways towards his quarters to retrieve a dry shirt before having to meet with Kavanaugh.

SG: A

"Dr. McKay," the pony-tailed nemisis gloated, a look of sheer glee/hatred illuminating the egotistical SOB's face, as Rodney made his way through the entranceway into the lower sub station. "Dr. Weir said you were coming to _assist_ me this morning."

McKay ignored him as he walked past, eyeing the large storage tanks with disdain. He'd done this once before and remembered the weeks it took for him to get the stench of rotten sea life out of his hair. Ford and Sheppard had been merciless with the running jokes during a trip on the jumper afterwards. When they had introduced him as Dr. Charlie Tuna to the leader of MXZ-576, he later rewarded their humor with chopped up squid type guts in their bunks, and in their packs, as well as the oil squeezed into their shampoo bottles. Not another word was said after that.

Now, he found himself, once again, pulling on the rubber waders, about to delve into two to three feet of disgusting waste and slime. Only this time it was worse, because for some unknown reason, Elizabeth was angry and had ordered her number one brain to work with _him_.

"So, how does it feel to no longer be the Golden Boy in Weir's eyes?"

Shooting his best withering gaze towards the other scientist, he raised his hands, snapping on a pair of insulated rubber gloves. "Something you need, Kavanagh?"

"No, actually everything is the just the way I want it," he said with a smile that no woman would ever find attractive. Gripping the door to the bottom of the nearest tank, he twisted the handle open, and bowed, "I think you should start with this one. I'll stay out here and run the pressure for the hose."

Rodney forced himself to walk inside the dark smelly dungeon, gulping several times to stop the wave of nausea rolling in his gut. Thank god he only ate a little breakfast. Switching on his head lamp, he glanced up just as a piece of green slime dropped from above to land flat on his forehead. Silently swearing revenge upon whoever was responsible for this torture, he felt around with his foot on the floor, locating the external drain, activating it to release.

It was while he was inside the third tank, spraying the interior ceiling with a high pressured jet of water, that the force of the spray increased dramatically. The hose bucked in his hands, knocking him off his feet, before it swiveled inside the enclosed area like an agitated serpent. "Kavanagh!" Rodney yelled, throwing himself sideways to avoid being struck. "What the hell are you doing out there?"

Not receiving a reply from Dr. Evil, he cautiously worked his way to the open door, tumbling out when the hose nailed him perfectly on the backside. He lay on the floor, his breath coming in quick gasps as he tried to ease his racing heart. Rolling onto his back, he listened to the sound of the angry nozzle striking the inside of the tank.

"That son of a bitch is a dead man," he mumbled, peeling off the now soaking wet gloves before unclipping the wader shoulder straps. When the suit fell to his feet, slimy water gushed across the floor as well as a few pieces of unknown sea chunkage. Focused entirely on escaping from his turmoil, he missed Kavanagh's return.

"What'd you do?" he sneered.

Rodney swiped a hand across his face, another piece of goop removed. Turning sideways, he spat whatever it was leaving a foul taste in his mouth. He needed to calm down before he physically flushed the other man down the drainage system. "Where were you?"

Kavanagh shrugged, "I had to check on a project. Why?"

"Gee, I don't know…hear anything wrong?"

The other scientist listened a moment before he smirked. "Something wrong with the hose?"

McKay wasn't a violent man but he had learned a few things from the major and the others. Perhaps it was from watching Sheppard's football DVDs, or maybe it was even seeing Teyla kick the major's ass weekly during their training sessions, but now there was no stopping him from the flying tackle he used to take Kavanagh down.

Both men ended up sliding across the floor in a tangled heap. Rodney had a good thirty pounds on Kavanagh and months of field work had turned softness into hard muscle. When he grabbed his adversary and physically tossed him into the tank with the still writhing hose, he grunted, witnessing the other man disappear below the murky sludge.

With a final sense of satisfaction, he turned down the pressure of the hose and flipped off the lights, sending the room into complete darkness.

"McKay!" Kavanagh's muffled cries called from within the tank, but Rodney chose to ignore them, making his way back to his room. He was finished with his chores.

Sheppard and Ford stood outside the entrance of the lift when he got off. Shooting them both a quick glance he continued towards his room.

"Hey, McKay, what happened?" Sheppard called out.

He stopped and turned to face them both. Opening his mouth he wanted to explain, but the overpowering desire for dry clothing pushed any comment back. Shaking his head, he stepped into his room, letting the door close quietly behind him before he stripped completely and made his way to the shower.

Once the spray rinsed the final remnants of soap, he stared down at his reddened chest, hands and arms. His little excursion in the tank hadn't helped the burns from breakfast. He really wanted to see Carson but decided against it, realizing there was still a good chance that the physician hadn't gotten over his anger.

Wrapped in a towel, he sat at his desk and snapped open his laptop. Whoever had set him up was going to pay…dearly.

(Part 3) "Oh, Bloody H"

Beckett

He was finished. After three hours of frustrating, anger driven, disgusting, up to your elbows in dried macaroni and cheese stuck to the bottom of the table cleaning, he wouldn't have a second thought at the mess hall being turned into a temporary infirmary. Nary a germ to be found… now that he had finished.

Scanning his masterpiece with an objective eye, he strolled through the back kitchen, adjusting a pan handle here, a draped towel there, so they were in line with the others. It was odd, this sense of satisfaction that engulfed him. When he'd started, he'd jammed a spoon in the door controls, short circuiting the relays so that no one could enter his torment. Not even one single damn ATA gene carrying Mister Wizard was going to be able to disrupt him.

Of course, now that his task was complete, his penalty for some unknown offense against Dr. Weir paid; he sat at a lone table and waited. The pounding on the door had started approximately thirty minutes ago, the time he figured for the next cook team to arrive to begin lunch preparations. Still, he wasn't ready to relinquish his brief control on all other lives on board Atlantis.

Why? Because, someone had set him and Rodney up. It had taken an hour of swearing curses that he was sure turned at least a few ancestors in their final resting places, before he pieced together his morning. While armpit deep in murky, food floating water, it came to him, something Weir had snapped before her wrath left them gasping like indignant teens, having just had the car taken away on prom night. Something about eavesdropping and PMS.

Now he'd been a doctor for quite a few years, his training extensive, his specialty perfected. But one thing that still left him and all other male physicians mystified, along with the remainder of the male populous in general, was PMS. It was one of those things in life, that proverbial line in the sand that you didn't cross if you wanted to live a long and prosperous life. After day 14 in a woman's life, any sane man would never mention weight issues, skin blemishes, and 'feelings'. And God forbid, if he accidentally picked up a piece of her stash of chocolate, he should be in top physical condition to be able to run like hell.

Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on the table, resting his head in his palms. Scrunching his hair with one hand, he paused a moment to pull a piece of unknown dried gunk free. Resisting the urge to flick it across the room, instead he wrapped it in a napkin and tucked it in his pocket. He needed to think a minute but the incessant banging was growing louder on the outside of the door.

He never divulged medical information, not even in jest to the major or Rodney. Especially concerning the women on board Atlantis. And they never asked him too. So, what or who would have made Dr. Weir think they were talking about her? And heaven forbid, concerning 'that'? Mentally sifting through her medical history, his head smacked against the tabletop. If he was correct, this was day 20. Only a man with a death wish would mess with a stressed out, hormonally charged woman.

"Beckett, open the damn door!"

Abruptly yanked from his musings, he jerked to stand up, glancing wildly about the room. "Major?"

Another thump against the door, this one sounded lower. If he had to guess, it was from a boot kick. Making his way over to the damaged door controls, he warily eyed the protruding spoon. Scrunching his face, he hesitantly reached out to touch it but stopped, realizing the possible shock he may receive upon contact. If he remembered clearly, he'd been wearing rubber gloves earlier when the object got, how should he say, misplaced?

He really needed Rodney.

"Beckett!" Now the Major was beginning to sound pissed. "I have C4 and I'm not afraid to use it!"

He leaned against the door, tapping his fingers against the ornate glass. "Calm down, lad. There's a bit of a problem with the controls."

Silence emanated a moment before a muffled reply, "What kind of problem?"

Carson smiled, picturing the look on Sheppard's face. "It appears to be jammed. I was thinkin' maybe you could send Rodney down here."

An audible sigh could be heard from the other side. "He's had a bit of a rough morning. Let me see if I can get him. Hold on just a minute."

With nothing to do but pace, he made his way between the tables, walking in the pattern of the number 8. "I wonder what happened to Rodney," he mused before he stopped, remembering the order of tanks to be cleaned and… Kavanagh. "Oh, bloody hell, what'd the bastard do to him this time?"

Returning to the door, he thumped impatiently on the glass, now more than ready to leave his self imposed exile. "Major!"

"He's coming, Doc. Don't get your knickers in a twist."

Soon the sound of more muffled voices and work could be heard from the hallway, before the spoon handle popped back out from the panel, landing on the floor with a small clatter. Not wanting the others to see what he'd done, Carson quickly deposited it in his pocket before standing irritably beside the door.

Not long after that, the door slid smoothly open to reveal one agitated scientist blocking the entranceway, only to be shoved aside by the food personnel.

"Carson."

"Rodney."

Ignoring all others, the men nodded simultaneously, "We need to talk."

(Part 4) You Don't Tug on Superman's Cape

Group: Sheppard/ Beckett/ McKay

Sheppard didn't know what to make of his two friends brusquely stalking past him, out of the mess hall, in the direction of the infirmary. Deciding he needed to keep an eye on the two doctors, he followed silently behind, catching bits and pieces of their conversation. Something about files, and eavesdropping, and revenge, made him certain that whatever they were about to do, he needed to either participate or turn a blind eye. And well, hey, what could those two possibly do that could get him in trouble?

Slipping in the closed doors, he was surprised to find the lights dimmed and the room empty. Apparently business was slow at the moment. Spotting light emanating from Carson's office, he poked his head in the entranceway and laughed. There sat McKay with the collar of his shirt pulled forward, staring down at his chest.

"Yes, McKay, you're a boy."

Rodney's head snapped up as he dropped his shirt, smoothing it flat. "Major, Beckett's getting cleaned up. Something you need?"

He shook his head, "Nope. Just came to see what you were up to." Pushing a pile of folders towards the center of the desk, he made room to rest his hip. "I still haven't heard what happened with you and Kavanagh this morning."

Anger flashed behind the blue eyes watching him, before a wall of disinterest settled, blocking anything that might give away the scientist's thoughts. "Just a bit of a problem with a hose," he grumbled, rocking back in Beckett's chair.

"Oh." Two could play this game. He leafed through the pile of folders, selecting one at random and flipped it open. It contained Beckett's latest notes on the ATA gene therapy. Skimming it briefly, he tossed it back on the pile before getting up to stretch his back. A small pop broke the silence and he grinned sheepishly.

"Ford and I got floor duty."

"I know."

"How'd you get tank cleaning? And Beckett got dumpster diving? You two must have pissed off some mighty big gods to get those duties."

Direct hit! The scowl was back with a vengeance. 'Come on, McKay, spill it. You know you want to', he mentally urged. The scientist started to cross his arms over his chest before stopping, gripping the armrests of his seat instead.

Sheppard's ever observant eyes didn't miss the slight grimace at the scientist's movements. Casually, he stepped between the desk and Rodney, picking up a pen before playfully flicking it at his friend's chest.

McKay's scrunched face told him all he needed to know. Before the Canadian had the chance to react, the major grabbed an arm of the chair with one hand and lifted Rodney's shirt with the other. There was no hiding the angry red burn.

"Let me see you hands," the major demanded, not giving an inch for the other to refuse.

But Rodney could be just as stubborn. "No," he snapped as he made to stand up, shoving Sheppard out of his way. His movement stopped when he caught sight of Carson glaring at him from the doorway.

"Why didn't you tell me?" The Scot demanded.

"Well, gee, none of us were really having a good morning. And after your little outburst earlier, I decided to take care of it myself."

The physician tossed the wet towel he'd been drying his hair with at the major before grabbing Rodney by the arm and effectively dragging him out to one of the diagnostic beds. "Take off your shirt," he ordered, his tone leaving no chance for nonsense. "Major, turn up the lights."

The scald on his arms and stomach looked painful and hot.

Carson inspected the burn closely. He could smell soap, so whatever the scientist had gotten into, he'd made sure to clean up after. "What burned you?"

Rodney swallowed unhappily, looking down at his arms resting on his thighs, "Coffee."

"When'd this happen?"

"Breakfast." Seeing the Scot's upraised brow, he added, "_After_ you left."

Guilt flushed over Carson as he stood back. "Stay," he ordered, placing his hand on Rodney's shoulder. "I need to get some ointment."

Sheppard watched the retreating figure before sitting next to McKay. "You had this while cleaning the tanks?"

Rodney shrugged.

"All that sea sludge probably didn't help, did it?" McKay's continued silence was unnerving, so he probed a little more. "Hanging out with Kavanagh probably didn't help either."

The scientist shifted with a 'harrumph'.

Pieces clicked into place; the bad duty assignments, Rodney and Kavanagh wet in the hall, Beckett locking himself in the mess hall, Rodney not telling Beckett he was hurt, an angry Weir. "What'd he do?"

For the first time, Rodney's gaze met his, only to shift quickly away as Carson entered the room.

Glancing back and forth between the two silent doctors, he angrily jumped to his feet, "Damnit, if you two don't tell me what's gong on, I'm going to beat it out of you!"

"Kavanagh," the Scot mumbled, not looking up as he applied the soothing cream to Rodney's arms.

"I know that," Sheppard snapped. "What did he do?"

"Other than be born, take his first breath, pass off being intelligent…"

Sheppard held up his hand to stop Rodney's diatribe.

Twisting the lid back on the tube he was holding, Carson took up a seat on the bed across from them. He shot Rodney a questioning glance. Receiving a brief nod, he looked to the major. "It all began a week ago, when I went down to the labs to find Rodney. I needed to test his gene level. Instead I came across Dr. Kavanagh going through Rodney's equipment."

He stopped briefly telling his tale when it sounded as though the scientist had actually growled. Handing Rodney a loose fitting scrub top to pull on over his head, he helped the scientist get dressed before he continued.

"I asked him what he was doin' there and when would Rodney return? He was actin' strange, like I caught him with his hand in the cookie jar." Carson looked irritated, remembering the events of that afternoon. "Next thing I know, he's playing with some little gadget, asking me if I know what it does? Well, of course I have no idea and am surprised when he tossed it at me. It turned out to be one of Rodney's little gene activated toys that he'd been testing, and it kicked on when I touched it."

"What'd it do?" Sheppard didn't like where this was going.

"It gave off a helluva jolt and knocked me off my feet."

Rodney jumped off the bed, angrily pacing. "That's when I came back. There's that pony-tailed bastard, laughing…Laughing! Once I made sure Carson wasn't hurt, I…I..."

John was now pissed, also, and hopped off the bed, glancing between the two men, "What? What did you do?"

"He decked him, Major. Knocked him clean into next Tuesday."

Sheppard wasn't sure whether he should congratulate McKay or yell at him. "Why didn't anyone tell me this? Does Weir know?"

"Aye. She came in the room right behind Rodney. Witnessed the whole bloody thing."

"And?"

Rodney stopped pacing, flexing his right hand and shaking it free of phantom pain. "You know, Elizabeth. She scolded us, gave Kavanagh hell, and demanded that we each report to her separately to fill out a report."

"Then what?"

Carson grinned, "We got a warnin'..."

"…and dimwit got a letter of reprimand added to his file for endangering the good doctor," Rodney completed with a smirk.

Sheppard paced between the empty beds before turning to face the quiet doctors. "I take it he's messing with you two, now?"

They nodded together like a pair of twin siblings. Rodney finally gave in and crossed his arms while rocking on his heels with devilish delight, "But, we have a plan."

Beckett mimicked McKay's movements.

Glancing between the two, Sheppard saw something that would cast fear into most mortals. Two of the most intelligent men he'd even known, conspiring to commit revenge. "Can I help?"

(Part 5) Hook, Line, and Stinker

Pairing: McKay and Kavanagh

Rodney sat dejectedly, spinning slowly in circles, on one of the stools in his lab. Gripping a small piece of Ancient technology like a lifeline, he swallowed back his feelings of rejection and closed his eyes. He could still hear those fateful words from Carson when he'd been called earlier to the infirmary, "I'm sorry, lad, but apparently your body is rejectin' the gene." And then his life went to hell.

It wasn't much later that the Major had been able to track him down. Apparently, Beckett hadn't been able to keep his little bit of news to himself and went and reported it. Sheppard came to find him immediately, first all sympathetic, but Rodney knew it was a ploy. The man had wanted him off the team from day one, and now he had his excuse. Repeating Beckett's words, the major hung him out to dry. Until they could find out what was 'wrong' with him, he was immediately, officially, replaced from going offworld by Zelenka.

Zelenka! He couldn't believe it. That little Czech just cruised right into his spot like it was nothing. And now, Sheppard, Ford, Teyla, and…and Zelenka were gone, off on some mission in the jumper.

Standing abruptly, he dropped the cold little device to the tabletop. His lab was littered with Ancient devices that he or the major had activated, now all dead to him. His personal shield... Dead. The life sign indicator… Dead. The friggin' hot water, for crying out loud… Dead. "Damn it!" he cursed, accented with a swift and painful kick to his stool, sending it flying across the room.

Grimacing, he hopped on one foot towards the open door, only to discover _him_ standing there. The devil incarnate. The Fabio wannabe, nerd in glasses. Eyeing the man with sheer hatred, he hobbled past him. "Don't you have some place to be?" he snapped.

Kavanagh ignored him to lean casually against the wall, "So, how does it feel, knowing you're no longer the golden boy?"

Rodney stopped, his shoulders tightened, "I don't know what you've heard in the floating rumor mill, but I'm still top dog."

The pony-tailed scientist stepped away from the wall, eyeing his prey warily. "There's only one top dog around here, old man, and it's a bitch."

The snide comment sent a roar of blood flooding angrily throughout Rodney's body, flushing his face a deep red. He limped painfully around the scientist, making a beeline for his quarters. "Leave me alone."

Kavanagh smiled, seeing the other man angry really made his day. Following McKay, he stood outside the door that the doctor had left open, and peered inside the quarters he'd never been invited to. Surprised to discover that it really wasn't much different from his own, he dared to take a step in and leaned against the doorframe, watching his nemesis fuss over his foot. "Maybe you should see Dr. Beckett."

Rodney's head came up with a snap, clearly surprised to see someone in his room. "What are you doing? I told you to leave me alone!"

With a shrug, the scientist turned and headed back out into the hallway. It was when McKay called out for him to wait, that he paused mid-step, to look back over his shoulder. Hobbling towards him, using one piece of furniture to the next for support, the injured man shook his head in disgust.

"I could use a hand."

The Mighty McKay actually needed his help. Savoring the long awaited moment, Kavanagh stepped back to his side and wrapped his arm around Rodney's waist while the Canadian draped his arm over the younger man's shoulder. Slowly they made their way towards Beckett's domain.

SG: A

The Scottish physician was busy wrapping an injured Marine's shoulder when McKay and Kavanagh made their entrance. He didn't look pleased, seeing the limp and grimace from his friend, as the younger scientist helped ease him to a bed. "What did you do this time, lad? I thought I told you, you need to be more careful." The reprimand had an annoyed sting to it. When the scientist remained silent, staring at him coldly, he shook his head. With a pat to the arm, he sent the Marine on his way before making his way over to Rodney.

"Alright, let me see what you did this time." Slipping off Rodney's shoe and sock, he carefully manipulated the scientist's foot. "Can you wiggle your toes?" Slowly, Rodney waved his little piggies.

Seeing the big toe a bit off color and stiff, Carson grinned, "I guess that one won't be goin' to market any time soon." Receiving a scowl and raised brow, he chuckled to himself, "I'll get you a cold pack. Don't go anywhere."

With Beckett out of the room, Kavanagh stood beside Rodney. "I thought you were friends."

"Yeah, well, guess not, huh?" Sensing Kavanagh's curiosity, Rodney growled, "Dr. Doolittle screwed up with his gene therapy. Because of him, my genetic structure is beginning to disintegrate."

"I thought I'd overheard that just your ATA gene no longer worked."

"You heard wrong." Swinging his leg over the side of the bed, he snapped his fingers and pointed to his shoe and sock. Without a moment's hesitation, the longhaired scientist bent down to assist him.

It was Carson returning at that very minute that was almost Rodney's undoing. Seeing the Scotsman roll his eyes and shake his head, Rodney feigned a cough to stop himself from laughing.

Kavanagh took the cough as a signal that the physician had returned so he stood up and waited expectantly.

Beckett carried two cold packs. Setting one on the table beside the bed and about to grip the other to pop the bubble inside, he blinked when Rodney's hand snaked out and snatched it from him. "What do you think you're doin'?"

"I'm taking these with me. You don't think I'm going to wait around down here, do you? Who knows what kind of incantations and spells you chant when no one else is here." Reaching for the other pack, he carefully slipped off the bed, shrugging free from the physician's hand. Instead he waited for Kavanagh to take up the slack and give him some help.

"You need to give your foot a rest, Rodney. Why don't you stay here for a bit? The Major and his team should be returnin' soon. Once they debrief, maybe they'll have somethin' for you to take a look at."

"You think I'm going to sit around and wait for their hand me downs? I don't think so. You know, pulling me from missions is one thing, but taking my clearance for immediate access is another."

The physician shrugged, holding out his hands in a sympathetic gesture, "I'm sorry, lad, but you know until Dr. Weir clears the debriefing, there's nothing for you to do."

Rodney took a shaky step closer to the doctor, getting right in the Scots face. "This is all your fault," he hissed.

Carson in return, stepped back, knocking into the bed behind him. Surprised at the vehemence from his friend, he twisted away, "I'm workin' on a solution. You just have to be patient."

Thrusting one cold pack to Kavanagh and maintaining his grip on the other, Rodney gestured to the door. "Let's get out of here." His arm around the smaller scientist's shoulder, he disappeared behind the closing doors, but not before he waved the pack he was holding behind his back. The small attached packet taped safely to its underside.

A slow smile blossomed across Beckett's face; the next part of their plan was up to the major.

(Part 6) Best Served Cold

Sheppard shifted his position on the bed, anxious to get going. He had a briefing to complete and then some down time for the rest of the evening. Watching Beckett dismiss the final members of his crew, he perked up as the physician headed his way. "So, Doc, anything exciting happen today, while we were gone?"

Beckett pulled his stethoscope from around his neck, shaking his head 'no'. "I fixed a sprained shoulder and a bruised toe."

"Anybody I know?" When Carson glanced up at him while pressing the apparatus against his back, he quieted and took the customary deep breath. A few more lungfuls, a poke here, a blood sample there, and he grinned. "So? Who hurt their toe?"

Snapping the chart closed that he was writing on, Beckett looked about the room to make sure they were alone and then chuckled, "Rodney."

"McKay?" All teasing left the major's voice, "What'd he do?"

"Oh, it's nothin' to fret about. He merely banged his foot on a stool in his lab. You should have seen Kavanagh tryin' to help him walk," Carson continued as he strolled across the room towards his office, "I never realized how much smaller he was than Rodney."

Unfortunately, Sheppard didn't find this conversation amusing in the least. "Kavanagh! What's he doing with McKay?"

Carson was clearly startled by the major's reaction. "Rodney needed help to get here. Zelenka was with you, who else should he have asked?"

"Well not Kavanagh. That man's a menace to the whole project." Slipping his jacket back on, he followed Beckett into the office before he continued. "It's difficult enough having to deal with McKay's ego, especially now, but I just don't get him turning to Kavanagh."

"Major…" he started, only to be cut off.

"You don't get it! They're useless! We are stuck out here with no way to get home because McKay's gene no longer works. He was the Answer Man!" Folding his arms, he glared at the physician. "Have you tried the gene on Dr. Doom?"

"Aye, but it didn't take."

"How long does McKay have before his genes are toast?"

Carson shrugged, turning his palms out in an uncertain gesture. "There's no way to know, Major. He might have a few more days or longer if I could get him to agree to stay down here."

"Does he know?"

"I told him about the ATA gene, and his own breakin' down, but not the rest."

Sheppard stalked back into the infirmary, slamming a tray along the way, spilling its contents wildly across the floor.

The doctor followed close behind, grimacing at the mess. "Major! John, what are you going to do?"

"I have to go see Elizabeth and inform her that McKay's as good as dead to us and all we have left is the junior league scientists."

"Major, Dr. Zelenka and the others are fine scientists. They just haven't been given the chances that you gave Rodney."

Stopping outside the door, Sheppard spun on his heel and pointed back, "If you think I'm putting my life and the lives of all the others onboard Atlantis in the hands of people like Kavanagh, you deserve to die with them!"

Carson failed to reach the major before the man disappeared inside the lift. Standing alone in the deserted hallway, he stayed a few moments to give the appearance of being troubled, before returning to his office.

A stack of files on his desk waited for him and he opened the first one clearly labeled 'Rodney McKay'. Sifting through its pages, he shook his head in resignation before dropping it into the wastebasket.

SG: A

It was early evening before the 'all clear' signal was given. Ready to set the final stages of their little game into play, Rodney took a deep breath before grabbing the bottle of Athosian wine from his desk. All the members were in place waiting for him. By tomorrow morning, What's-his-name Kavanagh would be going down so hard he wouldn't even know who or what hit him. Swishing a mouthful of wine, he spat it in the sink before heading out in search of his nemesis.

SG: A

McKay stumbled down the hallway, nearly falling several times as he neared Kavanagh's lab. Carefully clutching the bottle to his chest so as not to spill a drop, he reached out to rap on the door, only to hit air when it whooshed open. Surprised to see Dr. Pony-tail waiting for him, he took a step back and tripped. He would have landed soundly on his butt if the other man hadn't caught him.

"Dr. McKay?"

Rodney waved one hand in the air, the other still tightly clutching the bottle. "Call me Rodney," he slurred, breathing heavily into the scientist's face.

Kavanagh gasped at the smell. "I think you should come in and rest."

"No. No, no, no, no," Rodney mumbled, his head falling to his chest. "I can, _'hiccup'_, I can rest when I'm dead." Opening his eyes, he blinked several times trying to clear his vision. "You know," he started, but stopped to take a swig from the bottle, "I thought your work was awful, crap really, but, _'hiccup'_, I changed my mind. You're not like _them_." He waved the bottle in a circle, nearly falling down once more.

Not sure what to do with the drunk physicist, Kavanagh guided Rodney towards a chair in his lab. "What happened?"

Rodney shook his head, banging the bottle on the table top. "Friends…friends drink together," he slurred, sliding sideways only to be propped back up in his seat. A look of surprise crossed his face and he smiled, "Thank you."

Pulling another chair close, Kavanagh took a seat next to McKay. "What happened, Rodney? Why are you drinking?"

The scientist's brows rose at being called Rodney. Scratching his chest, he sniffled and then grunted. "Did you know, _'hiccup'_, that I'm dead?"

"I had heard that your gene therapy didn't work."

"Oh." He took another swig from the bottle and then wiped the top off with his hand, swirling the contents a bit before he clumsily handed it over. "Yep, I'm dead."

Kavanagh sniffed the bottle before taking a cautious sip. Surprised to discover the delightful fruity flavor, he swallowed a larger mouthful. "Thank you."

Rodney grinned sleepily, "You deserve it." When the pony-tailed scientist handed him the bottle back, he giggled, "No thank you, I've already had one… _'hiccup'_, one bottle."

He wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve, watching the man consume more wine. "You should be in charge, when, when I'm gone."

The now tipsy younger man shook his head, "No, they already picked Dr. Zelenka."

Tipping sideways to rest his head on the cool table top, the older man looked up, "How do you know that?"

Kavanagh took a longer pull from the bottle, clearly becoming affected by Carson's little magic pill. "I watched them," he whispered conspiratorially.

Sitting up, Rodney shook his head and frowned, "You were there? They had a meeting without me?

Kavanagh waved his hand in the air, calming down his friend. "No, no, no. Let me show you." Rising to his feet, he staggered over to his laptop and flipped open a file. "Press that one," he giggled.

Shakily rising to his feet, Rodney stumbled over to the desk and peered at the screen, his nose almost touching the panel. Poking several times at the folder image and not seeing anything happen, he snarled, "Doesn't work."

A shaky finger from behind him tapped a key and the screen changed to show the inside of the infirmary. The figures of Sheppard and Beckett filled the screen, talking about him.

"How?" he asked, before plopping back on his stool.

The young man grinned, wiping some spilled wine off the front of his jacket. "Bugs."

"Bugs?" Rodney scratched his head, "The major had a bug. Stuck on his neck." Glancing at Kavanagh, he frowned, "You wouldn't help us."

Kavanagh scowled back, before falling sideways, landing on the floor in an unconscious heap.

Rodney sat a moment longer, staring at the fool on the floor. Certain that he wasn't faking, the scientist slipped his comm link from his pocket and stuck it in his ear. "Major, we have a go."

SG: A

The following morning, Elizabeth and the rest Atlantis were awoken to the sound of Dr. Kavanagh's voice filling the communications systems. Admitting to bugging the station and setting up certain crew members to get in trouble, his voice sounded odd, almost like he was in a trance or drugged.

Making her way towards her office, she was puzzled to find the hallways filled with crew mingling about, pointing towards the Stargate. Pushing her way through, she stopped to stare at the unbelievable sight before her.

Someone had brought in a Jumper during the night and parked it before the gate. Duct taped to the front window was one bleary eyed Dr. Kavanagh, wearing a red shirt at least two sizes too small and black pants tucked in at the bottom in his socks. If she didn't know better, she could have sworn he was dressed like someone from the original Star Trek program.

A note was attached to his chest that she pulled off and opened. All it said was, '**Beware, Crewman No.7**'.

Glancing about to find the culprits responsible, her gaze came to rest on six figures dressed in identical charcoal grey Atlantis uniforms leaning against the upper railing: Sheppard, McKay, Ford, Teyla, Beckett, and Zelenka.

They each raised a coffee mug in salute before stepping out of sight.

Epilogue:

"I have a few minutes now, if you're available, Major."

"Thanks, Dr. Z. How about a little off the top."

The End


End file.
